(Reprinted for current 4th of July)
I recently watched a documentary that interviewed the few elderly remnants of Hitler’s domination over Germany before and during the Second World War. Their memories were as different as they were and ranged from a full declaration of support for the regime and the man, to a denial that they knew anything of the racial hatred that spawned gas chambers, to a deep sadness over what their silence had meant.
It made me think about a story my mother told me that always meant a great deal to me. She was a college student at the University of California at Berkeley when Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1943, which began our national involvement in the world-wide war. She would tell of the stunned reaction of the citizens of San Francisco as they wondered if those planes would come east from Hawaii and bomb their city. They gathered in crowds on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific looking west in silent worry and confusion.
But, as the news of the terrible destruction of the American naval fleet filtered back, the confusion turned to hatred for their fellow Japanese-American citizens. Indeed, over the course of the next few months, these Americans would be rounded up and taken to detainment camps in the desert losing their homes, their businesses and years of their lives. My mother could see the coming storm and took what action she could. There was a corner store near her college run by a second-generation Japanese businessman that the students frequented to buy small necessities and snacks. She rounded up her fellow sorority sisters, many of whom criticized her for her actions, and headed with the willing to the store to buy as much of his stock as they could. If he had to leave, he would at least leave with some money in his pocket for himself and his family.
I prized this story as a child, my mother figuring as a larger-than-life figure which I loved. As I grew older, I recognized not only the courage of her actions, but her willingness to do whatever small thing she could to stand against the government sponsored Executive Order 9096.
But what gained my final admiration was when I put the whole puzzle together. After finishing college my mother married my father, an Army Air Corps pilot, who was shot down and killed over Manchuria by a Japanese pilot. Even after this tragic event, she still told her story of helping a man who happened to be of another race and culture. Yet, she made it clear to me that he was an American, distinct from the enemy of the same race that killed my father. She set an example that has led me to understand that this is one of the precious things about our country, to be cherished and acted upon. This flame lit almost 80 years ago, still shines years later for me.
Virginia King Smith in 1943